Summer it would seem, has well and truly arrived. You know it has when your washing gets so dry and stiff you have to wet it again to fold the bloody stuff.
I don't think it's so hot that people need to be driving around topless though like some folk round here have been. We hardly live in the Mojave Desert and last time I checked, most cars have air con, or windows, those things that can be wound down. Now I can understand driving with your shirt off if you're getting in your car beside the beach to drive further down the beach, but to pick the kids up from school? I don't think so. Think of the children for Christ sake. They don’t want to see middle aged male areola and never do I.
Remember how about 15 years ago some nerdy folk used to harp on about us all using air con less in order to save the ozone and how we all ignored them because we loved getting out of our ice cold cars and walking into ice cold shopping malls? Now we have global warming and we wonder just why the planet is heating up and why we have to drive around topless. Go figure.
The female version of driving topless is to walk everywhere in short shorts. I think that quite possibly every female member of the student body has started wearing them at the college I have to drive by every morning to drop my son off at school. Not that I'm complaining because I seem to be immune these days to the site of trim, taught, tanned teenie legs, possibly because my eyesight is such that I can just make out the back of my hand on the steering wheel, but lesser drivers are not. You can tell by the way they weave all over the road trying their best to take in both sides of the view at once. Somebody needs to put up warning signs around the place before some unsuspecting pedestrian gets parked on.
Summer perving is a rite of passage for any young man. It's usually the masturbation preparation period of a fella's life that precedes the period where he discovers just what words work best to find the free porn when using Google. It's about this time of year that car loads of sweaty young guys will spend the day to-ing and fro-ing between beaches around the place, parking up every now and then when an opportunity presents itself to perv at older girls in bikinis. Despite the sweltering temperature, none of the good ol boys will actually get out of the car on account of the massive hard on that all this girlskin on show will inevitably cause. Hey, we've all been there.
I have actually. I remember spending such an afternoon in the back of Jase’s very cramped RX7 at Days Bay one afternoon. There the four of us sat, with our legs bent, getting an eyeful of the two hottest bodies on the beach that fortuitously happened to be laid out right in front of us. Any doubts we might have had as to whether the girls cottoned on to us were gone the moment they started to leave and took a detour to come over to the car just to tell us we were 'fucken perverts'. A bit rude of them I thought. Their magnificent bosoms and pert arses distracted us from the very panoramic harbour view that lay beyond them but did they hear us complaining? No, they did not.
Still, not quite as bad as the time Bruiser was driving and missed the lights turning green at the intersection on account of two blonde's in bikini tops crossing the road several metres in front of us. He might have gotten away with a lazy perv too, had it not been for the girls in the car beside us, who after witnessing that he no longer needed hands to hold the steering wheel in place, tooted, waking him from his three-way fantasy. Jealous bitches.
Personally, I don't see the point in looking longer than a second or two, or even more than once. Admittedly it's a very primal thing for us fellas to stare like we do and it simply comes down to the fact that we like to watch, sport usually, but if it's an attractive girl wearing very little you can be assured that will usually do it nine times out of ten. The one guy who wouldn’t is gay. But that doesn’t mean it has to be blatant or disturbing, which it seems to be as men get older and perhaps of more concern, is that girls flaunting it get younger.
And let’s be honest, a little attention can be very flattering. Hey if I actually looked like Titan from Gladiators like I like to think I do, I'd be strutting around in a thong too hoping to catch the eye of everyone, including the gay guy. There's no harm in looking as they say but fellas, take it from me, when you're parked up at the lights and sex on legs walks by, just look the once aye?
Friday, November 28, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Shakespeare: More Memorable Than A Nut Dump
Shocking news this week that some schools are considering dropping Shakespeare from their curriculum. Whilst they’re at it they’re going to reduce the basic content in maths, history and business studies, in order to make subjects easier. Instead of actually teaching, these schools are going to group all the kids together on day one and let them spend their entire school lives alone, smearing excrement on one another.
Who are they hoping to make the subjects easier for I wonder? Pupils who can’t concentrate on anything that can’t be squeezed onto the screen of their mobile phones or deadbeat teachers who spent most of their three years at TeaColl rolling and smoking mega spliffs between bouts of fornication with one another?
Schools are no longer the hard arse institutions they were in my day, we all know that, but I think there needs to be a serious case of hardening the fuck up here and learn to make subjects that aren’t always interesting, unforgettable. Life, on the whole, is hard. When you eventually stop spending most of your time playing with yourself and finally get a job, you soon realise just why it was that you were made to sit through things like math, business studies and Shakespeare.
Yes, today’s youth are easily distracted and have the attention span of a goldfish, but that doesn’t mean we as parents and teachers have to share the same lack of foresight that our children do. It’s all a little too convenient for my liking, deciding that because little Tarquin doesn’t quite get to grips with Macbeth that we should decide to can it all together. Fuck it, let’s forget schooling all together and lets wrap him in bubble wrap and have him play all day on a trampoline with safety nets up the side.
I watched some ugly kid on the news the other night try and justify her disinterest in all things Shakespearean by trying to claim that it was a whole different language. And text speak isn’t? Yes it’s a little fruity, but by dismissing Shakespeare because you can’t be arsed figuring out the prose is like telling me you didn’t get Matrix Reloaded after watching the first one because there wasn’t as much fighting. Mental note to yourself: Don’t even start with me if that meant you gave up on Revolutions.
I can honestly recall more now about the two Shakespearean plays I studied 12 years ago than I can about the last dump I took. Admittedly it was nutty and thus hurt a little on it’s way out, but that’s all I remember. The memories I have of King Lear descending into madness and of Macbeth spiralling into self destruction are as vivid as anything that I’ve watched on YouTube and more thought provoking now than most movies I watch. That’s solely because the teachers that taught us, like Mrs Thorby, had manberries of steel and made them jump from the page and do just that.
Not that it happened over night mind you. My first foray into Macbeth was about as fun as that nutty stool I mentioned a few moments ago. I really struggled with it right up till about three nights out from essay deadline day, where, in the wee small hours of the morning I turned out one of my most accomplished works ever to see the light of day. I did an essay on the loyalty of MacDuff and it was so good the entire English faculty thought I had plagiarised it – and this was in the days before the internet! It was the second highest scoring essay over both 6th and 7th forms that year, one of only three A+’s handed out and catapulted me into the stratosphere of scoring that is intelligent girls, who were all of a sudden interested in me because I was clued up on Shakespeare.
Unfortunately lightning didn’t strike twice; well at least not for my best bud Coops because the essay I wrote him to hand in as his own work only scored an A.
So how do we save Shakespeare? Well a good start would be for school boards and principals to put the pressure on staff to actually do the job they’re hired to do. Too often we blame the kids, who lets face it, are on the whole, complete wasters these days, but there’s no surprise in that. Just because you can’t translate Shakespeare into text speak it shouldn’t mean that you put it into the ‘too hard’ basket.
Shakespearean plays are more than just the written word. That’s what stoner teachers too afraid to teach them and what kids who can write entire sentences with vowels simply don’t get. They are timeless and poignant because of the characters, the tragedies, the emotions and the actions that are behind the words. Shakespeare’s plays prepare you for life because they reflect life. It’s that simple.
The irony of all this talk of giving The Bard the flick is that the schools contemplating it might replace his works with other written works such as blogs. Who knows, maybe they’ll even read mine, they would be silly not to really, but I’ll tell you something for free; I wouldn’t be here writing this today if it weren’t for my getting to grips with Shakespeare all them years ago.
Who are they hoping to make the subjects easier for I wonder? Pupils who can’t concentrate on anything that can’t be squeezed onto the screen of their mobile phones or deadbeat teachers who spent most of their three years at TeaColl rolling and smoking mega spliffs between bouts of fornication with one another?
Schools are no longer the hard arse institutions they were in my day, we all know that, but I think there needs to be a serious case of hardening the fuck up here and learn to make subjects that aren’t always interesting, unforgettable. Life, on the whole, is hard. When you eventually stop spending most of your time playing with yourself and finally get a job, you soon realise just why it was that you were made to sit through things like math, business studies and Shakespeare.
Yes, today’s youth are easily distracted and have the attention span of a goldfish, but that doesn’t mean we as parents and teachers have to share the same lack of foresight that our children do. It’s all a little too convenient for my liking, deciding that because little Tarquin doesn’t quite get to grips with Macbeth that we should decide to can it all together. Fuck it, let’s forget schooling all together and lets wrap him in bubble wrap and have him play all day on a trampoline with safety nets up the side.
I watched some ugly kid on the news the other night try and justify her disinterest in all things Shakespearean by trying to claim that it was a whole different language. And text speak isn’t? Yes it’s a little fruity, but by dismissing Shakespeare because you can’t be arsed figuring out the prose is like telling me you didn’t get Matrix Reloaded after watching the first one because there wasn’t as much fighting. Mental note to yourself: Don’t even start with me if that meant you gave up on Revolutions.
I can honestly recall more now about the two Shakespearean plays I studied 12 years ago than I can about the last dump I took. Admittedly it was nutty and thus hurt a little on it’s way out, but that’s all I remember. The memories I have of King Lear descending into madness and of Macbeth spiralling into self destruction are as vivid as anything that I’ve watched on YouTube and more thought provoking now than most movies I watch. That’s solely because the teachers that taught us, like Mrs Thorby, had manberries of steel and made them jump from the page and do just that.
Not that it happened over night mind you. My first foray into Macbeth was about as fun as that nutty stool I mentioned a few moments ago. I really struggled with it right up till about three nights out from essay deadline day, where, in the wee small hours of the morning I turned out one of my most accomplished works ever to see the light of day. I did an essay on the loyalty of MacDuff and it was so good the entire English faculty thought I had plagiarised it – and this was in the days before the internet! It was the second highest scoring essay over both 6th and 7th forms that year, one of only three A+’s handed out and catapulted me into the stratosphere of scoring that is intelligent girls, who were all of a sudden interested in me because I was clued up on Shakespeare.
Unfortunately lightning didn’t strike twice; well at least not for my best bud Coops because the essay I wrote him to hand in as his own work only scored an A.
So how do we save Shakespeare? Well a good start would be for school boards and principals to put the pressure on staff to actually do the job they’re hired to do. Too often we blame the kids, who lets face it, are on the whole, complete wasters these days, but there’s no surprise in that. Just because you can’t translate Shakespeare into text speak it shouldn’t mean that you put it into the ‘too hard’ basket.
Shakespearean plays are more than just the written word. That’s what stoner teachers too afraid to teach them and what kids who can write entire sentences with vowels simply don’t get. They are timeless and poignant because of the characters, the tragedies, the emotions and the actions that are behind the words. Shakespeare’s plays prepare you for life because they reflect life. It’s that simple.
The irony of all this talk of giving The Bard the flick is that the schools contemplating it might replace his works with other written works such as blogs. Who knows, maybe they’ll even read mine, they would be silly not to really, but I’ll tell you something for free; I wouldn’t be here writing this today if it weren’t for my getting to grips with Shakespeare all them years ago.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Name Calling Never Hurt Nobody
My son has recently joined a Cub group. They sent us an email the other day telling me that this week they'd be going kayaking. My knee jerk reaction was 'The fuck they are...' but then that's my reaction to most things. Once I had calmed down I soon realised that that's why things like Cubs and Scouts exist; to give red blooded young boys the opportunity to do the things their lame metro sexual Dads don’t, like kayaking.
I probably wouldn't think to take my boy kayaking because a) we don't have a kayak which is somewhat essential and b) unfortunately I've become one of those limp wristed Dads who stops to think what might happen to his only child if things were to turn to shit. I haven't gone so far as to buy one of those trampolines with the safety nets around the outsides mind you; I mean what’s the point in those aye? Falling off the trampoline whilst being suplexed by the big bastard from next door is a rite of passage, if the good lord didn't mean for us to fall off trampolines then he wouldn't have made them with four foot high legs.
We had a massive trampoline as kids, my sister and I. It was so it could have quite possibly been Olympic standard size and man did we get some hang time on that sucker. The first incarnation had on it some heavy duty canvas, made from the same stuff Granddads tents were always made of. Heavy duty army issue stuff that whilst somewhat water resistant, actually absorbed the rain like a sponge. It held strong right up till the day it tore during a mid arseplant of mine. Still, even right up till the end it was hard core enough to break my fall so that I only cried like a girl for a little bit after it happened.
We have one out the backyard these days too and I am pleased to report that it has no safety sides and is regularly used for an all in neighbourhood royal rumble. Wrestling doesn't seem to have caught on with my son’s generation quite as much as it did with mine. Maybe it has something to do with that ridiculous rumour that it's all choreographed. We never once choreographed any of the summer slams that used to go down every morning before form time in our third form year. See that's how friendships were really formed in our formulative years, by being tagged in by a guy who had just super slammed some unsuspecting class mate.
Occasionally things got out of hand. Like the time Big Rob slammed equally Big Brent up against the column heater on the back wall of the classroom. Who would've thought that the combined weight of two strapping young 13 year olds would have been enough to rip it off the wall aye? How could they have not considered that when designing prefab classrooms I wonder?! That particular move bought the entire male population of our class a written warning and a school lifetime wrestling ban. Not that it stopped the rivalry. Coops and Brent, often best mates, were often wrestling with each other in a way that only a psychologist who specialises in homoerotic behaviours amongst young men could explain.
It usually started or finished with name calling. Coops was known as the 'Kung Fu Man' on account of his martial arts interests while Brent was the 'Aussie Bumfucker' on account of his being Australian. This moniker was almost always followed by a physical gesture that can be best described as a squatting man inserting an eight foot dildo in his anus, just in case anyone in earshot was unsure as to the meaning of the term 'bumfucker'. Coops was always an expressive young man with his gestures and still is to this very day.
Brent's unfortunate nickname was right up there with Daphne Blackballs. She was an older girl that lived in our 'Hood back in my younger years who was very dark skinned. Being the multicultural lot we were back then and accepting of all colours and creeds we were quick to point out the obvious. She had quite the potty mouth too as I recall, but that might have been down to the fact that every time we saw her we teased her over the colour of the male genitalia she didn't actually have.
But I was amused and quietly chuffed to learn that some things don't change. My son and his mates were calling each other pet names at their cub meet the other night. I couldn't quite work out who Patricia was because there were no girls in the room, until he told me afterwards that that was their nickname for Patrick.
Admittedly there were no Kung Fu Men or Daphne Blackball's, but poor old Zach is called Zach Efron which in this day and age is as good a burn as it gets no matter what the age.
I probably wouldn't think to take my boy kayaking because a) we don't have a kayak which is somewhat essential and b) unfortunately I've become one of those limp wristed Dads who stops to think what might happen to his only child if things were to turn to shit. I haven't gone so far as to buy one of those trampolines with the safety nets around the outsides mind you; I mean what’s the point in those aye? Falling off the trampoline whilst being suplexed by the big bastard from next door is a rite of passage, if the good lord didn't mean for us to fall off trampolines then he wouldn't have made them with four foot high legs.
We had a massive trampoline as kids, my sister and I. It was so it could have quite possibly been Olympic standard size and man did we get some hang time on that sucker. The first incarnation had on it some heavy duty canvas, made from the same stuff Granddads tents were always made of. Heavy duty army issue stuff that whilst somewhat water resistant, actually absorbed the rain like a sponge. It held strong right up till the day it tore during a mid arseplant of mine. Still, even right up till the end it was hard core enough to break my fall so that I only cried like a girl for a little bit after it happened.
We have one out the backyard these days too and I am pleased to report that it has no safety sides and is regularly used for an all in neighbourhood royal rumble. Wrestling doesn't seem to have caught on with my son’s generation quite as much as it did with mine. Maybe it has something to do with that ridiculous rumour that it's all choreographed. We never once choreographed any of the summer slams that used to go down every morning before form time in our third form year. See that's how friendships were really formed in our formulative years, by being tagged in by a guy who had just super slammed some unsuspecting class mate.
Occasionally things got out of hand. Like the time Big Rob slammed equally Big Brent up against the column heater on the back wall of the classroom. Who would've thought that the combined weight of two strapping young 13 year olds would have been enough to rip it off the wall aye? How could they have not considered that when designing prefab classrooms I wonder?! That particular move bought the entire male population of our class a written warning and a school lifetime wrestling ban. Not that it stopped the rivalry. Coops and Brent, often best mates, were often wrestling with each other in a way that only a psychologist who specialises in homoerotic behaviours amongst young men could explain.
It usually started or finished with name calling. Coops was known as the 'Kung Fu Man' on account of his martial arts interests while Brent was the 'Aussie Bumfucker' on account of his being Australian. This moniker was almost always followed by a physical gesture that can be best described as a squatting man inserting an eight foot dildo in his anus, just in case anyone in earshot was unsure as to the meaning of the term 'bumfucker'. Coops was always an expressive young man with his gestures and still is to this very day.
Brent's unfortunate nickname was right up there with Daphne Blackballs. She was an older girl that lived in our 'Hood back in my younger years who was very dark skinned. Being the multicultural lot we were back then and accepting of all colours and creeds we were quick to point out the obvious. She had quite the potty mouth too as I recall, but that might have been down to the fact that every time we saw her we teased her over the colour of the male genitalia she didn't actually have.
But I was amused and quietly chuffed to learn that some things don't change. My son and his mates were calling each other pet names at their cub meet the other night. I couldn't quite work out who Patricia was because there were no girls in the room, until he told me afterwards that that was their nickname for Patrick.
Admittedly there were no Kung Fu Men or Daphne Blackball's, but poor old Zach is called Zach Efron which in this day and age is as good a burn as it gets no matter what the age.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Elections and Erections.
So the national erection has come and gone and just like ‘ol Grandad it will be another three years before we have another one. It struck me whilst taking part and later watching the drama unfold, that the national erection is quite possibility the only event untouched these days by gratuitous sexual exploitation. I watched almost five hours of election night coverage and there wasn't even so much of a see through white blouse.
Hardly surprising given the subject matter I suppose, I couldn't imagine that even at celebratory post election bash they would be much chance of pulling. Not that I've ever been to one but it seems the average age at these things is 50ish, but hey who knows, all the swingers I know are 50+ so maybe it’s one big car key party and as more and more young people get involved you can be rest assured it will be only a matter of time before its wall to wall T & A. How else will they keep their attention otherwise?
It would've been wall to wall cock over at the Erotica Expo, the second biggest show in town this weekend. We did plan to go, but I only just managed to extract myself from bed to vote, let alone spend a couple of hours walking around the Events Centre trying to make like I didn't have an erection the whole time. Incidentally, one of the best ways to hide a stiffy whilst standing is to lean back against a wall and rest one of your feet half way up the wall, thus creating a casual, but cool stance that hides even the fullest woody. How many guys were up against the wall at the Expo I wonder?
My dodging the sexpo wasn't due to me being frigid at the thought of handling an eight foot strap on dickie or perving at those that use them in the course of making their living, far from it. But I've had a cold all week and unlike those that call in sick as soon as they get the slightest head rush when getting out of bed in the morning, I tried to work through it for far too long.
There's nothing quite like having a cold when the weather is great outside. If feeling like shit wasn't enough then it's hot everywhere just to remind you what you're missing. Just to top it off I spent too long outside last week when I wasn't sick and got sunburnt for my troubles. So now I'm burnt, sick and miserable, trying to crack a fat over the election coverage because I’ve missed the sexpo. What a winner.
I was genuinely surprised not to see the name 'OBAMA, Barack' on my voting form on Saturday. I looked everywhere and it clearly wasn't there so I wrote it at the bottom and ticked it. I hope they've counted it. It did seem like America's election earlier in the week was the world's election didn't it? Maybe all them uptight types who think we're too Americanised really have a point. Right up till the final days of our election I couldn't help but notice that we we're still getting more coverage from the States than we were of the Helen and John show.
Obviously them electing a cheeky darky was groundbreaking stuff but let's face it, Mr Sulu from Star Trek could've been running against McCain and have won it I reckon and he's a fictional character. George Takkei, the homosexual Asian man who played him probably wouldn't have done so well had he run as himself though. It's a uniform thing really.
Sarah Palin was the only deviation from the bullshit that gushed from the Republican War Machine but even she knew she was on a hiding to nothing with Grandpa McCain and eventually started putting the boot in - or at least the high heeled stiletto, the kinky bitch. Palin’s presence in the American campaign show wasn't a complete loss though, at least not for the porno Palin lookalikes who were quick to put on the dark framed glasses, tailored suits and do ‘Joe the Plumber’! Google that one if you dare.
Back at home it was the end of an era with the Teflon Don - Winston Peters - getting the boot. Winnie was always good for a laugh but he backed the wrong horse in appealing to the Grey Power crowd like he has done all these years. The problem with having a rent-a-crowd whose average age is in the high 70's is that they're more likely to cark it between elections than your average punter.
For the record I voted Green and not because I like hairy women and retro minge. It was really the only vote I could make on good conscience because you wait, in three years time we’ll be gagging to get rid of John too and the cycle will begin again...
Hardly surprising given the subject matter I suppose, I couldn't imagine that even at celebratory post election bash they would be much chance of pulling. Not that I've ever been to one but it seems the average age at these things is 50ish, but hey who knows, all the swingers I know are 50+ so maybe it’s one big car key party and as more and more young people get involved you can be rest assured it will be only a matter of time before its wall to wall T & A. How else will they keep their attention otherwise?
It would've been wall to wall cock over at the Erotica Expo, the second biggest show in town this weekend. We did plan to go, but I only just managed to extract myself from bed to vote, let alone spend a couple of hours walking around the Events Centre trying to make like I didn't have an erection the whole time. Incidentally, one of the best ways to hide a stiffy whilst standing is to lean back against a wall and rest one of your feet half way up the wall, thus creating a casual, but cool stance that hides even the fullest woody. How many guys were up against the wall at the Expo I wonder?
My dodging the sexpo wasn't due to me being frigid at the thought of handling an eight foot strap on dickie or perving at those that use them in the course of making their living, far from it. But I've had a cold all week and unlike those that call in sick as soon as they get the slightest head rush when getting out of bed in the morning, I tried to work through it for far too long.
There's nothing quite like having a cold when the weather is great outside. If feeling like shit wasn't enough then it's hot everywhere just to remind you what you're missing. Just to top it off I spent too long outside last week when I wasn't sick and got sunburnt for my troubles. So now I'm burnt, sick and miserable, trying to crack a fat over the election coverage because I’ve missed the sexpo. What a winner.
I was genuinely surprised not to see the name 'OBAMA, Barack' on my voting form on Saturday. I looked everywhere and it clearly wasn't there so I wrote it at the bottom and ticked it. I hope they've counted it. It did seem like America's election earlier in the week was the world's election didn't it? Maybe all them uptight types who think we're too Americanised really have a point. Right up till the final days of our election I couldn't help but notice that we we're still getting more coverage from the States than we were of the Helen and John show.
Obviously them electing a cheeky darky was groundbreaking stuff but let's face it, Mr Sulu from Star Trek could've been running against McCain and have won it I reckon and he's a fictional character. George Takkei, the homosexual Asian man who played him probably wouldn't have done so well had he run as himself though. It's a uniform thing really.
Sarah Palin was the only deviation from the bullshit that gushed from the Republican War Machine but even she knew she was on a hiding to nothing with Grandpa McCain and eventually started putting the boot in - or at least the high heeled stiletto, the kinky bitch. Palin’s presence in the American campaign show wasn't a complete loss though, at least not for the porno Palin lookalikes who were quick to put on the dark framed glasses, tailored suits and do ‘Joe the Plumber’! Google that one if you dare.
Back at home it was the end of an era with the Teflon Don - Winston Peters - getting the boot. Winnie was always good for a laugh but he backed the wrong horse in appealing to the Grey Power crowd like he has done all these years. The problem with having a rent-a-crowd whose average age is in the high 70's is that they're more likely to cark it between elections than your average punter.
For the record I voted Green and not because I like hairy women and retro minge. It was really the only vote I could make on good conscience because you wait, in three years time we’ll be gagging to get rid of John too and the cycle will begin again...
Monday, November 3, 2008
Fugazi Facebook Friends
I finally did this week what I’ve been putting off for a while; I removed ‘friends’ from Facebook that weren’t actually friends at all but status seeking people I used to go to school with. It was a decision I didn’t make lightly because I for one have been burnt by the Facebook burn that is removing ‘mates’ without their knowledge, but enough was enough.
One guy I went through my entire school life with added me as a mate. He and I did time on the dark dangerous Naenae streets where blood is thicker than water and people died for the colour of a headband, but fuck it, I was friend 264 so clearly he didn’t think to look me up when he first signed up to the ‘ol FB. I don’t doubt he’s still a stand up guy – he is by all the outstanding causes and groups he likes to add himself to – but we haven’t said boo to each other even after we’ve been added so what’s the point aye?
Life’s too short to spend all day trying to read through the actions of people you used to know just so you can see the ones you do. I signed up to Facebook to a) post anonymous nude pics of myself on young girl’s profiles and b) to catch up with mates overseas. Now I‘m as curious as the next guy to see how the hot girl from school turned out, but once it’s obvious that she isn’t then it’s highly likely that you’ll have as much in common with her now, as you did back then – bugger all. And you can bet she’s not going to appreciate your nude shots no matter how tastefully done they are.
Apparently you can’t post objectionable material on Facebook. But if I post nude pics on the page of someone who wants to see them i.e. Dougal Macca and we make them private so that only we can view them, are they really objectionable? If a fat girl falls in the woods is it really still funny?
A psychologist from one of Europe’s biggest mental health recovery organisations believes that at least 10% of Facebook’s 110 million users are addicted to the site. I think some of them appear upon my list of friends actually. He reckons that:
“The acquisition of friends is like any other fix but it’s competitive. You judge yourself by how many friends you have online. You go out of your way to amass friends and that means people bend out of shape and become something they are not.
To appear successful, you go and put yourself in credit card debt by buying clothes and handbags. If you’re an addict you need to do things to fix yourself and make yourself feel better. People in recovery look for ways of being ‘fixed’ and these websites can act the same way.”
NB: The clinic will help you rid your addiction if you’re part of the ten percent – but at a cost. I’ll save you the cash right now – turn the PC off, go outside and get a life. Simple.
Now eternal optimists and self help gurus will try and tell you that you can never have enough friends. They’re also the type likely to try and tell you that drinking your own pee is ‘cleansing’, so there you go. I don’t necessarily disagree with the first statement but there is such a thing as real friends who you see, contact or interact with regularly and Facebook friends who can be virtual at best.
One of my ex class mates tried adding me the other day, as friend 207 but I had learnt my lesson from the last time she tried something similar, on Old School Mates or some gay site like that which is the poor cousin to the likes of Facebook and Bebo. She had emailed me only to garner a response which I duly did and I never heard from her again. Until the other day but now the shoe is on the other foot and it’s me making the decisions. Luckily for me she is not as hot as she once was so the decision was easy; delete!
So if you’re reading this and you were a Facebook friend and find that you’re now not, I make no apologies. I really just got tired of my profile being fill of you talking shit with your mates, none of whom I know or care about and you inviting me to join groups or applications that I know or care about. You may have even let yourself go since College and thus my interest in maintaining a virtual friendship dropped considerably after viewing your pics.
But if you want to add me as a friend again maybe I could send you some of mine that I have on file…
One guy I went through my entire school life with added me as a mate. He and I did time on the dark dangerous Naenae streets where blood is thicker than water and people died for the colour of a headband, but fuck it, I was friend 264 so clearly he didn’t think to look me up when he first signed up to the ‘ol FB. I don’t doubt he’s still a stand up guy – he is by all the outstanding causes and groups he likes to add himself to – but we haven’t said boo to each other even after we’ve been added so what’s the point aye?
Life’s too short to spend all day trying to read through the actions of people you used to know just so you can see the ones you do. I signed up to Facebook to a) post anonymous nude pics of myself on young girl’s profiles and b) to catch up with mates overseas. Now I‘m as curious as the next guy to see how the hot girl from school turned out, but once it’s obvious that she isn’t then it’s highly likely that you’ll have as much in common with her now, as you did back then – bugger all. And you can bet she’s not going to appreciate your nude shots no matter how tastefully done they are.
Apparently you can’t post objectionable material on Facebook. But if I post nude pics on the page of someone who wants to see them i.e. Dougal Macca and we make them private so that only we can view them, are they really objectionable? If a fat girl falls in the woods is it really still funny?
A psychologist from one of Europe’s biggest mental health recovery organisations believes that at least 10% of Facebook’s 110 million users are addicted to the site. I think some of them appear upon my list of friends actually. He reckons that:
“The acquisition of friends is like any other fix but it’s competitive. You judge yourself by how many friends you have online. You go out of your way to amass friends and that means people bend out of shape and become something they are not.
To appear successful, you go and put yourself in credit card debt by buying clothes and handbags. If you’re an addict you need to do things to fix yourself and make yourself feel better. People in recovery look for ways of being ‘fixed’ and these websites can act the same way.”
NB: The clinic will help you rid your addiction if you’re part of the ten percent – but at a cost. I’ll save you the cash right now – turn the PC off, go outside and get a life. Simple.
Now eternal optimists and self help gurus will try and tell you that you can never have enough friends. They’re also the type likely to try and tell you that drinking your own pee is ‘cleansing’, so there you go. I don’t necessarily disagree with the first statement but there is such a thing as real friends who you see, contact or interact with regularly and Facebook friends who can be virtual at best.
One of my ex class mates tried adding me the other day, as friend 207 but I had learnt my lesson from the last time she tried something similar, on Old School Mates or some gay site like that which is the poor cousin to the likes of Facebook and Bebo. She had emailed me only to garner a response which I duly did and I never heard from her again. Until the other day but now the shoe is on the other foot and it’s me making the decisions. Luckily for me she is not as hot as she once was so the decision was easy; delete!
So if you’re reading this and you were a Facebook friend and find that you’re now not, I make no apologies. I really just got tired of my profile being fill of you talking shit with your mates, none of whom I know or care about and you inviting me to join groups or applications that I know or care about. You may have even let yourself go since College and thus my interest in maintaining a virtual friendship dropped considerably after viewing your pics.
But if you want to add me as a friend again maybe I could send you some of mine that I have on file…
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